Self-indulgent ruminations from someone just as abashed, appalled, intrigued and inspired as you about my life.
If I were a rich, white woman, this would be my eat, pray, love moment...

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Walk, Walk, Drag It, Baby

I had fully intended to catch up on the latest episode of "RuPaul's Drag Race" the other night when I sensed a palpable disdain emanating from my rib cage. Such a feeling struck me as odd because my happiness is generally measured by how pronounced my ribs display themselves underneath my skin. My thinness shone bright this night. But, like women and yeast infections, childish bouts of self-pity trademark the homosexual psyche. Seven and a half hours since the last episode, I was due. Pharmaceuticals are, therefore, essential. Chad Dooley and pills with vodka chasers maintain a fabulous, if not tumultuous, relationship. Sadly, my newest prescription for Prozac failed to kick in at this imperiled time. I gently placed my vodka tonic atop my cute yellow end table from CB2 and trounced to the cabinet above my refrigerator. The blond wig that I secured for last year's Halloween costume waited for me. I needed a pick-me-up, and that trash-tastic stripper hair, alcohol and an iPod Shuffle filled with Lady Gaga and Katy Perry could easily rectify the evening's shittiness.

While people incessantly ask me if I model or compete in drag competitions, I'd never fancied the idea of supporting my lifestyle on a required cocaine addiction or sweaty dollar-bill tips stuck to my duct-taped cleavage, essentials in such industries. Ogle at my fabulous gams, and you'll comprehend the relevance of the question. Not for me. However, the idea of donning a drag persona for Halloween this past year tempted me something fierce. Since I failed to locate the materials to become a human Shake Weight/jiggling female breast combo, I decided with the help of my friend, Amanda, to commit to the drag idea. We devised a slutty sister wife costume, capitalizing on the TLC trainwreck, "Sister Wives," sweeping the nation. My excitement was giddy-fying.

I immediately initiated an exhaustive search for the perfect drag accoutrement. A wig, red patent leather pumps and an American Apparel skirt and shirt combo. Strawberry supplied the red bra. In hot pink fabric paint on the bleached tank top, I scribed "I BET I FUCK BETTER THAN MY SISTER WIVES." I also purchased a fake infant to dangle between my legs.

With strict anticipation mounting on the night of the transformation, my friend Erica and I went to the store down the street to obtain makeup sturdy enough to mask facial hair. At this point, I could not shake the image of Patrick Swayze and Wesley Snipes plucking, spackling and spraying in the opening scene of "To Wong Foo." I was about to do this to myself. So, of course, I began humming the tune to that movie sequence..."I Am The Body Beautiful..." The song's chorus aided the process to musically drug myself with drag. Thank you, Salt 'N Pepa. The worst part of the process was shaving, and why women attempt such torture on a daily basis is beyond me. Have they not heard of laser hair removal? I am 6 feet 4 inches, and my shower is the size of a coffin. No angle mentally pictured by either of us resembles anything approaching sexy or coordinated.

The makeup proved the simplest part. My face provides a great canvas with big brown eyes, pouty lips and uniquely-draped cheekbones. Erica, also my resident cosmetologist, completed this masterpiece of hotmessness. I looked bewitching. Seriously. Please reference the pictures on my Facebook page. Standing at about 6 feet 10 inches, including 5-inch heels and an inch and a half of hair, I took my Amazonian ass out on the streets. Taxi drivers cat-called at me. Gay men beheld me in drag-awe. Women noted their jealousy of my legs and my triumph over their own prettiness. A hulking black guy at a bar in the East Village mistook me for an actual woman as I passed by him, and his pursuits to hit on me were incredibly touching.

At last RuPaul had graced my television screen, and the vodka seeped into my circulatory system as I reveled in the results of that Halloween night and the ensuing photography. The pick-me-up picked me up. My friend Suan's mother said I looked like Elle Macpherson, and a stranger commented that my hair looked liked I snatched it off Kim Zolciak's head (of "Real Housewives of Atlanta" fame). My mama said I looked like her with longer hair. My father, as mama showed him a picture of me, asked "who is that girl?"